Page 111 of Sinful Blaze

Me? I just emptied all my stress into the mother of my unborn child. I’m practically giddy.

That’s why, when I interrupt what’s clearly a secret luncheon between Senator Brennan and thirteen of his Senate cronies, I’m grinning ear to ear.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen! Fancy finding you here.”

Brennan spits his tea back into the cup he was sipping on. “Pasha! Mr. Chekhov! W-what? What are you doing here?”

I clap a firm hand on the shoulder of Senator Robinson, who jumps in his seat but manages to keep his mouth shut. Smart man.

Not so smart, though, for a man who is supposed to be in my pocket to be here.

“Well, Scott, you’ve been so hard to get hold of. I thought I’d do you the favor by dropping in.” I squeeze Robinson’s shoulder before moving on to slowly stroll around the room.

Out of the fourteen miserable little rats in here, five of them are senators enjoying hefty kickbacks from Chekhov Industries, including Brennan. Three more are deep in debt to me with various favors.

The rest look like they’re accompanying staff meant to take notes and grease any squeaky wheels when needed.

“Now, now, Mr. Chekhov.” Brennan starts trying to talk me down by literally standing up to me, but he changes course and decides to remain in his seat when my grin fades. “There are proper channels?—”

“Can’t use them,” I interrupt. “You’ve shut all of them off.”

“I-I’ve told you, we need time to consider all the information and sourcing, and?—”

“‘We’? There’s a ‘we’, now?” I stroke my chin thoughtfully. “Seems you’ve had plenty of time to coordinate with each other… but not me. That’s very interesting. Concerning, really.”

“Brennan’s right,” one of the other senators who is supposed to be loyal to me chimes in. Sanders, I think? After a while, all these pasty names stick together and I don’t give enough fucks to keep them sorted. “The contract you’re proposing requires considerable time and due diligence.”

“Funny,” I remark. “‘Due diligence’ is exactly why I’m here.”

I circle around the table to Senator Liam O'Cronin, who freezes. If he were a good and decent man, he would have bowed out into retirement after the third heart attack and his eighty-fifth birthday.

A good and decent man would also refrain from snorting blow before every Senate hearing.

So, safe to say he’s neither good nor decent. Nor, while we’re on the topic, much of a man.

“How are things, Liam?” I squeeze his shoulder until he winces in pain. “Going good? Up to snuff?”

He pales. Says nothing.

“Help me out here. I’ve always been good to you, haven’t I? Made sure you and your campaigns wanted for nothing. Always made sure your nose was clean.” I lean in close. “So why are you trying to fuck me over?”

This might be the start of O'Cronin’s fourth heart attack. “It isn’t us!” he yelps. “I swear! Our hands are tied!”

A-ha. Now, we’re on to something. I pull him in closer, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Then who?”

“I-I-I c-can’t, Pasha, I sw-swear?—”

“Answer me. Who is behind this?”

“B-Brennan isn’t the only one receiving threats?—”

“Threats?” I look up at Brennan for confirmation. “Tell me. Now.”

But whoever has O'Cronin spooked has been doing one hell of a job. He clams up, even in the face of my wrath. They all do.

It’s clear that whatever is going on, whoever is behind this, they have a tighter grip on these senators’ balls than I do.

Which pisses me off even more than being ignored.

---